Hampstead is just at the other end of the Spaniards Road and I was at the house in Downshire Hill in less than ten minutes. By the look of things, builders had been doing some sort of interior conversion. Debris in gray plastic sacks and piles of broken timber filled the front garden, which, fortunately, was mostly paved. A face at the downstairs window, no more than a pale blur, told me an anxious Mrs. Clarkson was on the lookout for my arrival. Once she had seen the white van with C. BROWN AND CO. LTD, ELECTRICAL ENGINEERS, printed on it in red above my logo of the curve of a C with the double loop of a B inside it (logos should always be as simple as possible), she dropped the curtain and went to let me in. I recognized her before I reached the door. Whether she recognized me then I couldn’t be sure because, of course, as nearly always happens, she was amazed to see a woman at all.

There still aren’t all that many female electricians and there are very few highly qualified ones with their own businesses like me. Because I’m proud of what I do and I know I’m good at it, I’m quite prepared to boast about landing the contract for the electrics for a hotel of the status of the Four Seasons in Knightsbridge, and later for those new houses they’re building in Paddington Basin. But most people think it very strange indeed when they call C. Brown and Co. and a woman turns up. Once or twice I’ve even been told I wasn’t wanted, thank you very much, they’d sent for a real electrician. Mrs. Clarkson gave me just such a doubtful wary look and said (which no one had ever said before), “Isn’t your husband coming?”

I didn’t laugh, though I wanted to. Nor did I say my husband was in Africa and knew nothing about electricity anyway. “You’ll have to put up with me,” I said. “I’m the electrician.”

“All right then, if you think you can do it.”

“Don’t know what it is yet,” I said, “but I’ll give it a go.”